


Masquerade

by ObsidianButterfly



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Anonymous Sex, F/M, Het, Masked ball, Oral Sex, POV First Person, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 08:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5085343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianButterfly/pseuds/ObsidianButterfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fairytale masked ball isn't all it's cracked up to be. Until you meet a much more interesting gentleman, who gives you a reason to want to see under the mask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masquerade

 

The ball was lovely you had to, albeit grudgingly, admit. A whole week’s worth of decedent celebration in the palace of Versailles on the orders of King Louis, all to forestall the murmurings of revolution.

A week of masked balls, music, free flowing wine…the inevitable would come, the rich buried their head and pretended all was well, while the poorer starved. A few parties to showcase their importance and grandeur would not save them from the winds of change coming.

All the people in their finery, the soft orchestral music, so many pretty outfits…self concisely you smooth down the front of your dress and straighten the glittering gold mask covering the top part of your face.

A masked ball only made everyone more excitable and blithe. When your face was hidden from view, you noticed all passions were let loose more freely. Not that the parties of Louis court were tame by any standards, but the usual careful political game was abandoned in favour of being as forward, or even as rude, as people wished. A lowly third son of a Comte may not ever dare to contemplate asking a Duchess’ hand to dance normally, but when faces and titles and identities disappeared, it was more…equalising, in a sense.

You watch the dancers in the middle of the hall wistfully, as they sway and twirl in time to the music. One more very slow lap along the edge of the hall, you decide, with a stop for a final drink of punch, and then you will leave. You were beginning to feel foolish standing all by yourself, and not confident enough to integrate into another groups conversation. Your friend has disappeared much earlier in the night with a man, ostentatiously, dressed all in black, with black and gold glittering mask. He had dragged her away to dance what felt like hours ago, and they had not returned. The pair had waltzed together on the dancefloor for a while, but you had long lost sight of them, and they had probably disappeared to find a more secluded area for amorous couples.

It was ok, you waved her off happily and hoped that she was enjoying herself, but now that left you the odd one out.

Hovering at the edge of the dance floor you watch the graceful swish of skirts, trying to block out the happy chatter of the mass of people. Another half hour, then you can go home, take off your shoes and remove the restrictive, tightly laced up, dress. You have come and mixed, well, a little, and done your duty. Another half hour then you can have _peace_.

A low voice startles you out of your anticipatory cheerful thoughts of leaving.

'Such a pretty lady should not be all alone on the edge of the dance floor.'

You hadn't seen, or sensed him approach, but a man has crept to your side, dressed in a light sky blue jacket with delicate silver embroidery and buttons. You glance over his appearance, tall, slim built, and even with the mask covering his face from nose to forehead you can tell that he is a handsome man. The slightest dusting of brown stubble over his jaw saves the angles of his chin from being harsh. It is surprising that his clothing is simple in style, lacking in decoration and adornment, but still clearly of expensive make. The light blue mask is also out if the norm, smooth and simple, unlike others who have chosen all manner of coloured paints or rare bird feathers to decorate their own. Rather than the rather silly, over styled wigs, his brown hair is combed back and tied neatly at the nape of his neck in a small ponytail.

Should you ignore him? Be rude in the hope he would leave you alone? You have managed to dissuade a few annoyingly persistent suitors this evening, and you were really looking forward to removing your horribly uncomfortable dress clothing, not standing chatting to someone who is likely as self-absorbed and exasperating as everyone else here.

'How do you know that I'm pretty at all under this mask?' You challenge, not quite meaning to sound as disgusted as you did.

The man doesn’t notice, or choses to ignore your hostile tone, and flashes you a brilliant smile, easy and carefree, dark chocolate coloured eyes glitter in humour behind his mask. 'All ladies are beautiful. It's a prerogative of your sex.'

You fight not to roll your eyes at his obvious attempts at flattery. You had met far too many men who thought a few pretty word owed them something, or were far too smooth for their own good.

The stranger coughs delicately and turns to watch the dancers on the floor and you see a small flush of red creep up this neck. ‘I’m sorry, that sounded _much_ better in my head.’

Maybe he wasn’t the usual sort you had shooed away before. His embarrassment is unexpected and he shifts awkwardly, gaze fixed on the dancers.

‘Do those lines work on women a lot?’ You tease him.

His lip quirks as he turns back towards you, possibly relieved that you have seen the humorous side and not dismissed him. ‘Which response would gain me the most favour?’

You smile, unsure how to take his harmless flirting. He seems so earnest and likable on the surface, not the common arrogance of most of the nobility. You glance down at your glass, looking for a distraction in your drink, only to realise that you had emptied it already. The stranger has noticed that too.

'Would you-would you care to dance?’ He asks, voice hesitant, clearly unsure whether you would even consider agreeing, but he has already taken a presumptive step onto the dance floor and extended his hand.

You hope no one is watching, but you can already feel the eyes of the people around you, waiting to see if you agree or decline. Your pulse speeds, you had enjoyed watching the movements of the crowd, but to take part yourself? You are not sure.

There had been too long a pause and his hand drops, but he still gives you a soft smile. ‘My apologies, my lady, you don't know me.'

He takes rejection better than a few men you have come across, even though you can see the slight disappointment in his eyes behind the mask. He probably thought his face was reliably neutral. 

'It's not that.' You hesitate, it's not that you really had anything against dancing with him, it's just you are not very good at it.  'I'm not the best dancer.' You reply as you step closer to the masked stranger, heels clicking on the hard wooden floor.

You are treated to another brighter smile he wraps his hand around yours and leads you out from your comfort zone at the outskirts to a more central location on the dancefloor. His palm is warm and you can feel heat radiate to your fingers, even though the long satin gloves you have on.

He pulls you close, a small polite space still between your bodies and his arm slips around your waist. There's an involuntary shiver at having him so close, palm resting intimately against the curve of your spine, touch and heat lingering against your skin. His other hand cups yours delicately, barely touching you at all while you rest a palm on his broad shoulder.

The stranger takes a small step sideways in time with the music and you are moved along with him, bumping knees is discoordination.  He grins, but doesn't comment when you give him an apologetic look for your clumsiness.

You are steered expertly through the crowds, holding your breath and focusing on nothing but trying not to trip over your own feet.

'Relax.' His voice is a soft, soothing purr that you could grow to quite like. 'You make more mistakes when tense. It's not about knowing the steps; it's about letting your body move with the rhythm of the music.'

That's easy for him to say, you think, he is clearly good at this, and what’s more, you can’t even _hear_ the soft orchestral music at the moment, blood is pounding too heavily in your ears in panic to make out anything but your deeper breathing and his rich voice.

The masked man glides across the floor effortlessly, and you feel like a clumsy hippo in his wake, but notice that he guides you gently rather than dragging you along as you have experienced before with other partners. His touch is light, gentle, his hip bumps yours as he steps forwards, easing you backwards in time with the music. You suddenly become flustered with the nearness of his body as his thigh presses between yours, your skirts shifting as he directs you with subtle moves of his body.

'I don't know what you mean; there is nothing wrong with your dancing.'

You are not sure whether he is teasing you or trying to be polite. Glancing upwards, you admire the way that the contour of the mask accentuates the strong line of his nose and cheekbones. His eyes are looking outwards, scanning the crowd of people in the hall so he doesn’t notice you watching him. He licks his lips, and that small unconscious action somehow has heat rising to your cheeks. You try and focus on something else, and not the fact you are dancing with a tall, attractive man, that so far seems the most interesting and politest gentleman you have come across this evening.

'You are lying to make me feel better.' You quip as he pulls you into an elaborate twirl on the dancefloor.

Surprised you didn’t land on your backside, the masked stranger has a secure hand around your waist. He smiles shaking his head in response, gaze turning on you. His eyes are warm but intense, holding your own gaze solidly, making you both want to look away and not at the same time. The little subtle stroke of his thumb down your spine is infinitely distracting. Much more so considering that you don’t even know who he is, but are beginning to feel like you want to.

‘Were you accompanied by anyone?' His tone is casual, but you catch the slight nuance just at the end as he turns you in his arms; hopeful.

'I was…but my friend has disappeared. Someone asked her to dance.'

'Lucky for me then.' The heavy inflection in the masked man’s voice has your flushing again, you can feel heat rise to your cheeks and drop your gaze from his intimate one.

He chuckles, hand renewing their grip on yours and around your waist, effortlessly leading you into the next dance. He doesn’t press any further, instead turning the conversation to more personal chatter.

You feel surprisingly comfortable with him, relaxed and at ease. The crowd disappears by with barely a notice from you, time passing by quicker than you thought.

When the music pauses you find yourself breathless from exertion, body tingling from the heat and press of his. The stranger gives a small bow and leads you off of the dancefloor with a gentle hand on your waist.

‘May I fetch you a drink?' He asks, and you note the hopeful tone again.

He wants to spend more time with you and you suddenly don't want to go home any more either. Another drink in his company wouldn't be so terrible, you don't even know the strangers name yet, and would like to.

Agreeing to his offer, the masked mans jacket quickly disappears into a small crowd of people to fetch a drink for the pair of you. Perhaps the night is looking up after all, he was certainly good looking, and charming, but more in an unpractised, natural way. There was a boyish naivety to him, despite his bravado. It hadn’t went unnoticed that your body had eagerly responded to him as well, with his innocent, subtle, touches sparking a little stirring of arousal low in your belly.

Just as your masked dancing partner returns, two glasses in hand, your friend suddenly arrives upset, in tears, and without her own paramour in tow.

'I'm sorry I need to go.' You apologise to him as you are half dragged away by your friend. Things obviously didn't go well with her mystery man and she is keen on leaving.

He looks crestfallen under that blue mask, sitting aside the drinks, but he glances at your friend with a cornered look. 'Of course you must go with her. I enjoyed our dance though.'

You give him a gentle, apologetic wave as you are pulled away.

'Will you be here tomorrow evening?' He asks, eagerly. 'Perhaps we can finish our drink then?’

You hadn't planned on coming back to any more of the palace balls this week, until you met him that is. If you came by yourself tomorrow night, without your friend, then maybe you could have the whole evening with him. The excitement of such a prospect unexpectedly speeds your pulse.

'Yes. I'll come tomorrow.'

There is a wide quirk of lips and glint in his eye, as he quickly kisses the back of your hand in farewell, before you leave the hall.

 

 

 

 

This was foolish, you think to yourself. He wasn't going to be here, you scold, as you scan the crowd of dancing figures, looking for the same blue coat and mask as last night.

Would you even recognise your dancing stranger from last night if he changed clothing? You had changed clothing too, would he be able recognise you? What were you thinking, you didn’t even get each other’s names, just a quick promise that you would both come tonight.

You weren’t thinking clearly, that was it. Too wrapped up in the romance of the masked ball and a charming, roguish man.

What if he had arrived earlier and waited too long for you, deciding that you had stood him up? Or perhaps he didn’t bother coming, would you really wait all night? How long would be enough, one hour? Two? The thoughts fill you with sudden panic and you are not sure which of the possible prospects is worse.

What if you spotted him dancing with another woman? That idea shouldn’t fill you with as much jealously as it does at the moment, considering all you did was talk and dance together for a few hours. You had no claim on him, and he had none on you.

Fidgeting with the mask covering your eyes, you had hoped that keeping the same one as last night would allow him to spot you easier. Although you had changed your dress, you were glad you didn’t really know or speak to anyone at the palace. Such a fashion faux pass as wearing the same mask was unthinkable. You wonder what he will be wearing. Would you be able to tell your masked stranger apart by the set of his shoulders, or perhaps his hair?

Just when you start to think that you will probably spend the rest of the night bored and alone again, a warm breath tickles along your shoulder, as someone leans into your ear.

'Drink?' A soft male voice enquires.

You start unexpectedly, and turn to find the same gentleman as before, dark eyes fixed on you and brilliantly relieved smile across his face.

He hands you a glass filled with fruity punch and takes a small sip of his own.

You were glad to see him. Something about him sparked your interest, his manner, the slight quirk of lips, his good looks. You subtly glance over his body as you accept the offered glass. He is dressed in pale green this time, mask matching the light colour of his jacket. The hem of his coat doesn't quite cover the way the tight white fabric of his trousers cling to his thighs or the stockings that cling to defined calves.

'Thank you.' You accept the glass from him with a small smile which he returns, almost shyly.

‘I’m glad you came.’ And there seems a genuine honesty in his words.

‘I’m sure you could have found other ladies to dance with.’ You keep your tone light, but there is a small niggling dark part of your mind wondering why he chose to speak to you. In the crowds of beautiful ladies, much more than yourself, why did he bother stopping to talk to you?

‘None as carefree and natural as you. If I have to fend off another dowager trying to introduce me to her daughters I may resort to violence.’

‘Oh, so I’m just a cover to stop you being harassed by old ladies?’

‘I-ugh.’ He falters, in the midst of taking a sip of his punch spluttering, chocolate gaze turns regretfully to you. ‘I didn’t mean it like-‘

‘I’m teasing you.’ You let him off the hook and the masked stranger lets out a deep breath of relief.

‘For a moment I thought I had offended yet someone else at this party.’

‘You offend a lot of people?’

‘Not intentionally.’ He gives you a mischievous grin and you don’t quite believe that.

'My apologies, my lady, I didn't get your name last night.'

Was that his way of asking? You wonder if you should tease him some more, make him work for his answer. 'Well, you didn't give yours either.'

He shrugs, nodding his head. 'This is true, forgive my bad manners.’ The masked man bows slightly from the waist. ‘My name is Arno.'

'Is that your real name?'

He looks mock offended. 'You think it's not?'

'No. But...it’s easy to pretend to be someone else at a masked ball.'

'Who would you pretend to be?'

You shrug, sipping your drink delicately. 'Someone else.'

Arno makes no comment to your melancholy. 'You now know my name, may I have yours?'

‘Perhaps.’ You smirk at him and you can tell that he has raised an eyebrow, even under that soft, spring green mask.

‘Perhaps?’ He challenges with a smirk.

‘I’ll think about giving you my name. I’m no grey headed dowager, but you may still yet offend me.’

Arno licks his lips slowly, eyes focus on you. You wonder what that pink, soft-looking, tongue would be like against yours if he kissed you. The shine of wet on his putting bottom lip was quite inviting.

His smirk had taken on a noticeably more sexual tone and his voice dropped considerable, shivering along your skin like a gentle caress. ‘I shall endeavour to prove my worth, my lady.’

It was easy to flirt shamelessly when he didn’t really know who you were, but the sudden intimacy still has you turning red and dropping your gaze from his. You started it, but he was willing to play the game just as easily.

Arno steps closer, he smells wonderful, the lightest dusting of some deep musky cologne clinging to his skin. You can feel the excited hum of his body, the heat from his hand as his fingers wrap around your gloved ones, lingering for a few moments gentle caress before he removes your glass from your hand and sits them aside.

‘I wish to dance with you again.’

You laugh lowly. ‘Did you not have enough of me stepping on your feet last night?’

Arno joins your laugh, teeth biting his bottom lip as his hand curls around yours and he eases you towards the crowds of dancers.

‘I’ll put up with it for the chance of holding you close again.’

Your breath hitches in a soft gasp at his words as Arno’s hand traces the curve of your hip before slipping around your waist. He is much closer than last time, barely any space between your bodies. He fits so snugly against you, you would think you were made to be a couple.

‘You enjoy dancing with me?’

‘I’m enjoying the feeling of you in my arms.’

Arno presses close, but still remains gentle, guiding you around the dancefloor in time with the music and other couples. When his head dips your pulse speeds in eager anticipation, assuming that he is moving in for a kiss.

The strong line of his jaw is just inches from your face. He is so close you could almost bury your head in the crook of his neck and you have an urge to rub against his stubbled cheek like a cat. Skin brushes your cheek delicately, and you are not sure if it was his lips or something else. You shiver as he inhales and exhales, breath tickling along your bare neck.

You can barely make out his face he is so close, warm body pressed against you, you have lost all sense of where you are standing or whether you are still moving in dance or not. The tip of Arnos nose, trails your cheek. He wants to kiss you, you can tell, muscles tense, lips parted and centimetres from yours, his breath ghosting over your lips.

Sucking in a sharp breath, you lick your lips, you want it, you want this strange, attractive and enticing man to kiss you.

Just when you think that he is about to close that last few centimetres the music changes abruptly to a lively dance, and you are both jostled by the couple next to you.

Arno apologises profusely, the pair of you too wrapped up in each other to concern with the fact that you were making a spectacle of yourselves on the dance floor and practically getting in everyone’s way.

He chuckles lowly as the couple huff and move around you, and you match his sheepish look, pulse still hammering and breathing hard. A few other dancers, you notice, are also watching you with a reproachful look.

A calloused thumb trails your jawline then delicately over your lips. Arno watches you with a warm, heated gaze.

‘If we leave now, only knows what they will think of us.’ He mumbles.

‘But we are in masks so they don’t really know who we are.’

He grins, widely. ‘True. Another dance, then perhaps we can find somewhere more quiet?’

Leaving his question open, Arno pulls you close to move around the hall in time with the music again. Arno is leaving it up to you, you could refuse him and bow out now, but you really don’t want to. You _want_ somewhere secluded with him, you want to see if that anticipated kiss was as good as promised.

You barely have a chance to finish your dance your masked partner when a tall gentleman suddenly cuts in, offering you his hand. ‘My I have this dance.'

You glance from the stranger to Arno, you don't really want to dance with the new masked man, but you don't want to seem impolite, and although his body language suggests he would rather not, Arno graciously steps aside, not wishing to hold all of your attention or possibly start a conflict on the dance floor of the king’s ball.

He shrugs gallantly, giving you a gentle smile and soft kiss against the back of your hand when you mouth sorry to him, and retreats from the dance floor. 

Your new partner is too tall; his arm heavy against your waist and his breath is horrible. You find yourself dragged along the hall with him, uncomfortable and manhandled. You try and keep your eyes on Arno, watching where he disappeared to, but lose sight with all the spinning and twirling in the faster paced music.

The conversation is stilted and the new masked stranger constantly returns to his favourite topic; himself. He obviously thinks very highly of himself and you are left with the impression that you are supposed to be grateful to have the honour of dancing with him.

Eventually, after what seemed like several uncomfortable hours, you manage to shake him off. In reality, it was only a few dances, but it felt all wrong with this new dance partner, and he was a remarkably unpleasant person. You did not feel like having a drink with him as suggested, and were very glad to give him the brush off when you felt the cold anger radiate from underneath his mask at your refusal.

When you finally make your way back to where you last saw Arno standing, he is nowhere to be seen and your stomach sinks a little in disappointment.

Lingering at the edge of the dancefloor in indecision, you wonder if you would be able to find him if you went searching through all the throngs of people.

Perhaps he went to get another drink? Or maybe he was dancing with someone else? But you cannot see the familiar style of his coat or mask anywhere in the room.

As the second night of the ball ends you are unable to find your intriguing dance partner and are forced to leave, feeling rather dejected.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Why had you bothered coming back? Your friend no longer wished to come and you don't particularly feel like standing alone again.

Your masked stranger was obviously no longer interested. Arno probably thought that you were more taken with the rich, dominating man who cut into dance last evening. However, you find yourself scanning the room anyway, just on the off chance that he might be here. _Hoping_ that he would be here.

A familiar stance catches your eye, one knee slightly bent, leaning his weight on the other, and your pulse speeds in delight. His long brown hair is tied back in the habitual ponytail at the base of his neck, a few stray wisps falling loose at the sides.

You watch Arno from a small distance, as he scans the hall, almost rising up on tip toes to get a better look across the crowds of people.

As if he can feel the weight of your gaze on him, he turns to look right at you. With the slightest quirk of lips he heads in your direction and you grin as he approaches.

The light blue mask from the first night might covers half of his face, but his attention on you is intense, broad shoulders and narrow hips swaying as he stalks in your direction.  He moves with purpose, confidence, a man comfortable in his own skin, a man used to using his body, in action or combat.

Arno has changed jacket once again, favouring a dark navy blue, gold buttons glinting in a double row down the breast and at his cuffs. You wonder if he is wearing the same mask in case you tried to find him tonight.

You can see the glint in those dark eyes now as he stops just a few feet away, a low bow from the waist and the lightest brush of lips across the back of your hand. Even with the gloves it lingers, you can almost feel the soft, warm, press of his lips against your skin. Your pulse quickens from just the briefest caress. How can he make something so simple seem erotically intimate, when the man who tried to dance with you last night had tried to be much more forward, but shut down all interest from your body.

'I'm pleased to see you here.'

Was it just your own hopes, or did he sound relieved? You give him a soft smile. 'I didn't think I'd see you here, either.'

'We're you looking for me?' Arno has already moved in close to your body, closer than normal intimate conversation. His eyes roam over your face, tension in his arms and shoulders. He wants to close that last few inches and touch you, and you want him to do it too.

'Yes.' You confess, voice low and breathy. You are treated to a bright white grin, his ego placated.

'I thought I'd fallen out of my lady's favour.'

'I can think of ways to get back into it.' You purr, suggestively.

You were never usually so forward but after days of dancing around one another you want something a little more than just a dance, and the anonymity of the mask lets you be as bold as you like.

Arno chuckles lowly and your belly squirms. The noise tugs something lower, and you are arousing yourself with all the salacious thoughts running through your head.

He presses against you, the warmth and scent of his body enveloping you. 'I'm eager to find out what you have in mind.'

A hand slides to your hip drawing you closer. Arno dips he's head and lips ghost across your cheek before pulling away with a soft sigh.

He eyes the hall, full of laughing dancing people. 'Would you like to dance?'

Not really, you would much rather go somewhere quiet with him.

'No. Do you?'

Arno laughs. 'I'm afraid I used all of my best moves already.'

Good, he’s not keen on prolonging the teasing either.

'It's too loud.' You murmur, as the orchestra renews its effort to pull revellers onto the dancefloor.

Arno smirks, tongue trailing across his lips slowly, contemplating what to do next now that you have opened the opportunity for him to move things along. 'Let us get some air, then?'

Slipping your arm into his, the muscle feels solid and warm under you. Arno’s arm flexes a little and you smirk at him.

'Show off.' You tease.

You are lead from the main hall outside to the front steps. The palace courtyard is huge and decorated with lights and flowers. There are a few people milling around chatting, drinking and not paying the pair of you much notice. The cool autumn evening is crisp, and sky an inky blue. A light breeze ruffles your skirts and hair.

'Here.' Arno says, as he unbuttons his thigh length jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. It's heavy and warm, laced with the heat from his body, and smells enticingly of him.

'No, it's ok.’ You try to protest, handing him back his coat, but he is having none of it. 'You'll freeze.' You protest at the sight of his delicate silk waistcoat and thin, light, cotton shirt.

Arno grins at you, wrapping the coat more securely around you to ward of the late evening chill. 'I'll survive.' He reassures.

A slight cool breeze sweeps outside and you huddle closer in his jacket, noticing the subtle hungry roam of his eyes across you.

'You like the look of me in your clothing?’ You enquire, innocently, glancing out at the lantern light courtyard and pretending you hadn’t noticed him watching you intently.

‘ _You_ , would look good in anything.’

‘Does it look like I'm yours, or you have claimed me?'

Arno starts to shake his head but stops, pulling you towards him with a low growl. 'Yes.'

Your pulse races and you sink against the front of his body, all hard lines and warm muscle. The silk of his waistcoat is contrastingly soft and cool against your fingers.

Arno leans towards you and you lean into him, eagerly anticipating this moment when he moves in for a kiss. He stops just inches from your parted, eager lips. Long, pale fingers reach up and trace the outline of the cheek of your mask.

'I would like to take these off.'

You hesitate as his fingers brush your skin delicately. Behind a mask was freeing, anonymous. You could do anything, say anything and it not really be you. But also, what if he wasn't happy when the mask came off, a small toxic part of your brain cajoles. What if you aren't what he expected, aren’t pretty enough, aren’t who or what he was hoping for. The rejection at this point would hurt.

'Can- can we leave them on for now?' You ask, uncertainly

Arno's lip quirks in a small, reassuring smile, his thumb brushing across your cheek, and your skin tingles where his fingers have been. He gives a slight nod, ‘as my lady wishes,' as he drops his fingers to caress your jaw instead, tilting it upwards for a kiss.

Lips slowly descend to yours, the last few inches torturously slowly. They are soft and dry, just the lightest barely-there press against yours. Stubble scratches along your skin and you part your lips in a soft sigh.

Arno presses forwards, kiss deepening, tongue slowly winding around yours, taking your breath away.

You to press against the front of his body, fingers tangling in his shirtsleeves and moaning longingly at the small noises of pleasure from low in Arno’s throat. Not minding at all that both large, strong, male hands cup your arse and drag you closer, practically hoisting you up his body.

Arno’s body responds eagerly to your nearness, pressing firmly against your hip. The evidence of his clear arousal has you panting against him, you all but hook your leg around his thigh in effort to get even closer, you need... _something_.

The wall of the chateau is a few steps away and you find yourself hurried against it, back colliding with a cool marble column with a soft thump as Arno’s mouth feeds hungrily at yours, fingers still squeezing your backside as you grind your hips shamelessly against the tight front of his groin.

You moan and writhe against him, encouraging more. There is a need between your legs, you need touch and friction and bare skin. His mouth is doing wonderful things to yours and all your lust addled brain wants is him to be doing that…thing with his tongue between your legs.

Arno raises his knee slightly, pushing it between your thighs until your legs are parted and you are leaning more heavily against him. You buck against him, rubbing yourself like a cat in heat, loving the scrape of the fabric of your own clothing against your clit, which is begging for attention.

Groaning lowly as his lips leave yours, you let your head fall back against the wall, exposing the long line of your neck to his roaming mouth and you are soon shivering in pleasure, hot breath raising goosebumps across your bare flesh.

‘You are beautiful.’ He breathes heavily against your collar, tongue darting out to trace a small, wet line across your skin. ‘I never want to stop kissing you, touching you…’

Your fingers tangle in Arno’s hair urging him on, holding him closer as his mouth inches downwards across the mound of your breasts, which are unfortunately restricted by the silly, complicated court clothing. You need to bite your lip in effort from moaning too loudly and drawing the crowds of people gathered outside.

‘Please don’t stop.’ You can only beg him quietly.

Teeth scrape lightly across your collar and you are happy to realise that he has no intention of stopping.

Arno is only too happy to hold you tight against him as you wiggle against the solid line of his body, wetness soaking your underwear as you rub against the harsh fabric on his thigh. His hands curl around your thighs, pulling you up against his body. Lips press against your skin, tongue sweeps across your breasts in a warm wet line.

The noise of chattering people suddenly seems intimately closer than it had been, and Arno pulls away from you alarmingly quickly. You stumble as you are abruptly released from his warm embrace, but a hand slips around your waist to steady you against his side, as a throng of guests round the corner where you had been hiding.

You stare at them in disbelief, rearranging Arno’s jacket that had begun to slip from your shoulder and cursing their timing, but you are paid no notice, they are too busy humming excitedly to one another.

'Fireworks!’

‘How lovely.'

'We must get a good view.'

Arno glances sideways at you with an amused and slightly exasperated expression, as a steady stream of masked, coiffured people pass, almost knocking you out their way in effort to get to the gardens. Apparently fireworks would be going off at any moment if their chatter was to be believed, and the crowds of ball guests were eager to get into position.

Thankfully the prospect of said fireworks were distraction enough for them not to notice two guilty looking people, aroused, wide eyed and panting. Even behind the mask, Arno’s skin is flushed and eyes hooded with lust. You hand him a handkerchief which he takes with a puzzled look.

'Not your colour.' You indicate his mouth where the remnants of your lips stick has smudged on his skin.

Arno grins, ducking his head in embarrassment as he cleans himself off.

You also hand him back his jacket but he tries to wrap it around your shoulders again. You give him a pointed look downwards where your activities were evident in the long, hard, line, straining against dark green breeches. You try and not stare, body already aroused and frustrated at being denied. You want nothing more than to get rid of these clothes and have him naked, as you want, no interruptions. 

Arno eventually agrees that putting his coat back on would be the wisest course of action, given that you are surrounded by nobility.

'We should probably join the rest and watch the fireworks.' He mutters unenthusiastically as he fastens and smoothes down the front of his coat, now looking more presentable for company.

He is right, you might be missed, or someone would undoubtedly notice two people sneaking off or hiding in dark corners when everyone else is so intent on the show.

Arno's palm slips into yours as he leads you towards the crowds of guests watching the explosion of colour across the sky. It is warm and comforting and feels like it belongs there as he huddles you towards him, sharing the warmth of his body.

The fireworks mark the end of the third night of the ball and you can only sincerely hope there are no such distractions to stop you spending more time with him tomorrow.

 

 

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You are nervous and excited all at the same time. For the last three nights you have been having a wonderful time getting to know a handsome and charismatic man. Meeting prince charming at a masked ball is the stuff of fairy tales, and you have certainly had your own.

It has been fun dancing, drinking, getting to know him…intimately. You have given the masked stranger your name, but you are not even sure if the one he supplied is the truth. It has been dangerous, and exciting.

Things had certainly been heating up last night, the touch of his hands wandering your body had sent pleasant shivers down your spine, and Arno’s kisses were toe-curlingly good, setting fire to your bare skin everywhere they reached.

You couldn’t wait for more.

You don’t even make it into the ballroom this time. You are met on the stairs by a familiar figure, looking, you are thrilled to find, very pleased to see you.

‘I’m glad you came.’ Arno murmurs huskily against your ear as he leans in for a soft kiss against your cheek.

He smells of sandalwood and cedar from whatever aftershave he is wearing and the scent draws you in, eager to bury your face against his collar and drink in the warmth of his touch and smell as soft lips trail your neck.

A warm palm slips into yours; you have forgone gloves this evening as you want to feel his bare skin against yours. He is perspiring lightly, you notice, as he gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

‘Follow me.’ Arno’s words are almost inaudible; you can see the quiver in his Adams apple as he swallows hard.

You follow him through the crowds of guests; the dancefloor is almost full and noise deafening. He keeps you close, body pressed against yours, one hand wrapped tightly in your own and the other rubbing small circles at the crook of your back. Each night of the King’s ball seems to be busier than the pervious, as outside whispers of change grow steadier.

The palace is a maze of rooms and corridors, but Arno steers you though as if he has been here before.

You are lead to a door, almost hidden as it is painted to match the wall, but much like every other once in the place. It is unassuming and no different to many that you have already passed.

Arno opens the door and ushers you inside. The outside hum of conversation is almost completely shut off as the door closes behind you and a quiet calm descends in the room.

The room is small and cosy, pleasurably warm from the small fire crackling in the hearth. It is decorated ostentatiously with pinks and reds and golds. Full bookcases line the walls and a few tombs are scattered about on small reading tables. A large chaise longue takes up most of the space by the fire.

There is the faint click of key turning in the lock as Arno locks the door and crosses the room towards you.

‘Where did you get that?’ You ask him, as he tosses the small gold key onto a table.

His smirk is mischievous and bright. ‘I may have liberated it form one of the passing servants.’

‘Arno!’ You mock, reproach him, offering a gentle swat with your closed fan. ‘You will get us into trouble.’

His fingers grip your hips, drawing you towards his body.

‘I wished another kiss, uninterrupted this time.’

‘You just want me all to yourself.’ You tease.

‘Yes.’ There is no teasing in his response, honest and genuine.

He is incredibly close, dipping his head so that his lips meet yours in a passionate kiss.

Arno kisses chastely, delicately, but you have had too much of that over the last few days. A small moan against his lips has his arms winding around your back, pulling your body closer, urgently. His kiss deepens, tongue slipping between your teeth to start a slow massage. 

Pulling away, feeling too warm and flushed you regard him breathily, licking away the taste of the wine he had been drinking from your lips.

Reaching up, Arno loosens the tie securing his soft blue mask in place, and you hold your breath as he pulls away the fabric. Those dark eyes stare at you unabashed as you get the first full and proper look at his face.

He _was_ good looking, but it seems strange to see him uncovered. Even when you had tried to picture his face, complete, without mask, this was never quite what you had pictured in your head. Strange since the masks actually covered so little, forehead to tip of nose. It was amazing how expressive the top part of your face was and how altering it could change your look completely.

Running a large hand through his hair, Arno gives a short, abrupt laugh in nervousness. 'I'm anxious now. More so than earlier.'

He smiles softly, pulling you towards him for another kiss. ‘No more barriers between us.’ He murmurs against your parted lips.

Your hands get to explore the smooth expanse of his face without the feel of the mask this time. He curls against you as you run your fingers over the dark stubble on his jaw and the soft, smooth skin of his cheeks. His dark chocolate coloured eyes match the brown of his hair and you think that his nose must have been broken at least once.

Arno gently sits you down on a chaise lounge, the pink fabric sighing under the weight of the pair of you. His lips leave yours to trail along your jaw, down your neck, and you shiver against him, moaning because you need more of him.

'Please.' You beg, not confirming what you are pleading for but Arno knows.

He gently pushes you onto your back; his warm, strong body covering yours as you practically melt against him. Fingertips carefully brush the edge of the mask, lifting it away from your cheek.

With a deep breath you nod, allowing him to remove it completely. The world looks funny without being obscured from the mask, but Arno is just as handsome.

With barely as pause as you glance shyly up at him, unsure, his mouth is on yours again without hesitation, hungry and eager. He didn’t mind what you looked like without the mask.

You stretch under him, arching your back and pressing against the solid lines of his body, relishing the weight of him holding you down. Teeth sink gently into your bottom lip while Arno’s hands skimming up the bodice of your dress and thumb your breasts through the fabric covering them.

You pant and wriggle against his touch; it’s not enough, still too much clothing. Slipping your hands to the front of his jacket, you begin popping the long line of buttons holding the dark blue fabric closed. You need to get closer to him, feel the touch of his skin against yours. You can feel heat pool between your legs, your underwear already damp and clinging to you in your excitement.

Shoving his coat urgently off of his shoulders, the heat from his body intensifies the silk waistcoat and shirt offering a minimal barrier under your fingers.

Arno's hands roam lightly over you, unfastening buttons and removing your clothing with considerate care, as if you were a delicate present being unwrapped.

There is a low groan when, out of patience, your hand slips between your bodies to rub the length if his cock through his breeches. You can feel the pulse of his flesh even through clothing as he strains into your touch, moaning lowly against your mouth.

The rest of your clothing is pulled away quickly as he loses control, mouth descending to yours hungrily, skimming down your neck and shoulders, leaving soft teeth marks in their wake. Arno’s nose nuzzles your breast and goose flesh erupts across your bare skin in delicious anticipation. The slight scrape of stubble across your sensitive skin and warm breath has your nipples straining for touch.

Arno teases a few moments, leaving you writhing and begging silently with your body. Eventually capturing a peaking bud, your nipple is soon engulfed in the warm, wet heat of his mouth. He sucks gently and when his tongue flicks over your nipple you can practically feel it lap between your legs.

A large hand skims along the curve of your thigh, slipping between your legs; the rough tips of Arno’s fingers begin exploring you intimately. A calloused thumb trails across your clit causing you to shudder, arching upwards and pushing more of your breast against his mouth. His teeth sink lightly into your skin, grazing with the barest brush of teeth.

Arno’s hair is soft under your fingertips, you try and not tug too painfully but the actions of his body are causing you to lose all sense of self. All that matters is his mouth, and touch, and eager body pressed against yours. You hope he is not too concerned with your sharp tugs against his scalp as you sob in over stimulation.

A finger teases your opening, easily gliding through the wetness already flooding your pussy. Raising your hips, you try to get those dexterous digits to penetrate you but Arno skims by, trailing back up to circle your clit. 

You are left whimpering. 'Please. I need you. Don't tease me.'

Arno's dark eyes roll upwards watching you, mouth still happily exploring your nipples. He abandons them to kiss across your stomach, your flesh quivering under his lips.

'A taste first.' He purrs, hot breath blowing across your damp sex as he scoots downwards.

He eases down to kneel on the floor, leaving you sprawled across the chaise lounge. Fingers curl around your thighs spreading you wide before him. Arno's face disappears between your legs, lips, tongue delving between your folds, lapping the nectar from your body.

Your response is inarticulate, resorting to soft gasps and throaty moans while your body wriggles and arches into him for more. By the time his mouth has teased you to the brink of orgasm you are clawing at his remaining clothing, muscles quivering in tension.

You are left panting as your orgasm washes over you, Arno’s mouth gently sucking your clit as you practically melt into the fabric of the couch.

Arno strips his clothing quickly at your insistence. You need him inside of you, naked skin against naked skin. By the time he is naked and pressing between your open legs, your hips are practically arching off the couch in encouragement.

He tastes of you, tongue slipping along your own in a slow rhythmic dance, feeding you the taste of your own body.

You are tugged upwards to a better position on the chaise lounge, Arno nestles himself between your legs, raising himself up on muscles arms to grab the back of the couch, hips the only thing pinning you down. Your hands are on his hips, eagerly pulling him into position.

Arno slides the length of his cock into you in one sharp thrust, jerking your body with the speed of his movement, leaving you both moaning in pleasure at that first, exquisite joining. He wastes no time in setting a quick, dominating rhythm with those strong legs and hips.

You can see the tension in the quivering muscles of his biceps as he holds his upper body off of you, practically pulling himself against you with his grip on the couch. Squeezing his hips with your knees in encouragement, you arch your hips meeting his thrusts.

You are sliding from the couch with the force of your movements, you brace your arm to reposition yourself and your hand knocks something solid. Arno watches you as you pick up your discarded mask that was lying beside you along with some hastily removed clothing.

He grins and flings it to the floor, reaching downwards to kiss you with ferocity. One of his hands strokes your hair, curving down across your cheek that he can now touch freely without the mask in the way.

Your breasts scrape against his chest, nipples stiff and stimulated. Just a little more and you could easily cum again. Slipping your hand between your bodies, you circle your clit firmly in small circles as Arno buries himself into you with deep, hard, thrusts.

His breathing is heavy, brown hair flopping into his eyes and the faintest sheen of sweat across his forehead and chest. Arno growls lowly, he is close to his own orgasm but your body is already tightening, spilling over the edge as warm weightlessness takes over.

Your orgasm has set him off, groaning as you tighten almost painfully around his cock, thighs shaking and unable to hold them up any longer.

Arno’s hips still, head bowed against the crook of your neck and panting hard as the shuddering tension leaves his body.

Lips tickles your neck as he places gentle kisses across your skin as you both lie sweating and panting in the warm room, recovering from the rather energetic bout of lovemaking.

Yu didn’t mind the weight of him resting against you, until you realise just how heavy he was as Arno eases himself up to sit on the couch.

Arno pulls you into a sitting position beside him so that he can give you a long, slow kiss. You feel almost lightheaded from the heat and exertion, and his expert kisses still take your breath away.

You notice the time on the clock on the mantel.

‘We better leave.’ You say ruefully. ‘It’s late and the ball is likely finishing. We could get caught and thrown out.’

Arno contents himself kissing your cheek and down your neck in an affectionate way.

‘We can always come back tomorrow night.’

You laugh as he darts out a tongue to lick your breast, hand massaging the outside of your thigh. ‘And how do you plan to top this tomorrow night?’

Arno grins, chestnut eyes happily roaming over your mask-bared face. ‘I’ll think of something, my lady.’


End file.
